Crushed
by EveningInHornersCorners
Summary: Stranded in space, sometimes the cruelest things don't come from outer sources...


"_A mighty pain to love it is, _

_And 'tis a pain that pain to miss; _

_But of all pains, the greatest pain  
It is to love, but love in vain."  
_

―_Abraham Cowley_

She can't sleep tonight for some reason. She's tried everything—counting sheep, breathing exercises, reading—and none have been successful.

Sighing, she vaguely recalls reading in a magazine that lying in bed when plagued by insomnia does no good; in fact, it's better if you get up.

So she slides off the bed, into her slippers, and goes out to the kitchen. Opening a cabinet at random, she spots the tea.

She knows she shouldn't; after all, tea _does_ have caffeine content, but she brings it out anyway.

She's just finished making the pot and is stirring lemon juice into her cup when she hears a voice behind her.

"Can I have a cup of that?"

She turns to see Major West.

"It's not very good," she shyly admits, looking down. "Mother says it tastes like battery acid."

He smiles. "Doesn't matter."

And he pours himself a cup.

Taking a sip, he nods. "Well, I have to hand it to you Penny. You make the best battery acid I've ever tasted."

In that moment, what she sees changes forever. The easy smile, the glowing dark eyes, that wonderful nose—has she never noticed them before? Where was she when he executed his sense of humor, made a sleepless night worth it?

It's as though he's a new arrival on _Jupiter 2_.

And she's in love.

###

It's quiet night on this strange planet, hardly out of the ordinary; after all, aren't they all like that?

Judy's smiling more than usual and insisted upon making dinner tonight. Everyone seems to know exactly why.

Everyone that is, except Penny.

When dinner is ready, they sit down to a grand candlelit feast of delicacies unheard of here; roast chicken, sautéed asparagus, and mashed potatoes with gravy, served on intricately painted china purchased from an alien village sometime last year. Dessert is a special treat: astronaut's ice cream.

It puzzles Penny; once, when she made dinner, she had intended to use that same ice cream for dessert, but Mother had told her no, it was only to be used for a special occasion.

And yet, now Mother just sits smiling in the candlelight, not one objection passing her lips.

What special occasion is this?

Once everyone is, for the most part, done eating, Judy stands up, revealing her pearly white teeth once again in a small, graceful smile. Don stands up beside her.

"Don and I…have an announcement to make." The rest of the table looks up, waiting with bated breath, though it would seem that they all know what's coming next.

All, that is, except Penny.

And she has a pretty good guess.

"We're engaged." Don says, beaming, tenderly circling his arm around Judy's waist.

Mother and Dad, Will, and even Dr. Smith are on their feet in seconds, offering their congratulations. The Robot also scuttles in, showering them with good wishes. Don and Judy smile, glow in such perfect unison that they might be mistaken for one.

One flesh.

Penny remains glued to her seat.

In time, the group seems to float toward her chair, sensing that she isn't planning to move.

What they don't know is that she can't.

"Penny, don't you want to say something to Don and Judy?" Mother gently prods.

She opens her mouth, but it's already gone dry. She forces a smile.

"I'll wash the dishes." She says quietly.

Judy, whose night it would normally be, misinterprets the gesture and thanks her. Penny just murmurs feebly, "It's the least I can do."

The rest of the group leaves the room and she is finally alone, left feeling as though someone's icy finger is running up and down her spine relentlessly, chilling her beyond all measure.

Ripping herself up from the chair, she begins to rapidly gather the plates, tears pricking at her eyes like hot, sharp needles.

How is it that she can feel colder than a winter's day and like a blue flame at the same time?

###

The Robot pinpoints the date that Don and Judy are married on as February 26, but on this planet it is a beautiful spring day; the blossoms on the cherry trees silently ring out the joyful call to cease the hibernation of winter, and baby rabbits hopping by remind them of the new hope that comes with this fresh season.

The alien church is a lovely structure, made of gray stone studded by the most remarkable stained glass windows. Inside the varnished mahogany pews and altar are a stark contrast to the white carpet, which amazingly doesn't have a single wine stain on it.

Its priest is a kind, sympathetic man, and from what he says it seems that this planet saw its own version of Christ—that, or missionaries have come before them.

The wedding is a quiet affair; Penny is the maid of honor, and Dr. Smith the best man. There is no rehearsal, no meticulous timing. There aren't scores of musicians, just a single organist, and there are no photographers. Indeed, Judy even lacks a veil, and her dress was quickly made on the portable sewing machine from mint colored flannel. It was the only piece of clothing made for the wedding; the men wear suits, Maureen her rose colored dress and Penny her lavender one. Both she and Judy have crowns of flowers.

After the ceremony ends Judy tosses her bouquet to Penny—the only single woman there—and says it will be her turn next.

But she knows that won't happen.

The party exits through the front door, only to be met by a wave of cherry blossom petals. The others laugh, saying it is better than rice.

But Penny says nothing.

###

She has a dream the next night; she is drowning in a river and Don is on a tree branch looming overhead. He reaches down to take hold of her hand; she puts it up gratefully. They are centimeters apart when his hand suddenly disappears and she hears Judy viciously cackling, gloating about how Don is hers, and no one else's. Gasping for breath, Penny begins to go under.

At that point she awakens with a start. Sweat is causing every inch of her nightgown to adhere to her skin, but she doesn't care.

She turns over and, letting her pillow muffle her wails, cries herself to sleep.

###

She's had it for a week now.

It began with complaints of sores in the mouth, a neat row of five ornamenting her mucous membrane, brushed off as nothing more than canker sores that would go away in time. The next day painful blisters appeared on her hands; by midday they had begun bursting. Fever and chills followed, and by the evening she was bedridden and in a great deal of pain.

The others gather together, bewildred and unsure of what to do. Dr. Smith can't pinpoint any cause, nor is it like any other illness he's dealt with in the past. Letting it run its course has turned out has turned out disastrously, as she has only gotten progressively worse, to the point where she barely recognizes them anymore.

Don and Judy are, for some strange reason, the only ones she knows in her delirium…

###

Everything is in a haze; Penny doesn't know where she is. All she feels is pain.

Blurry silhouettes loom over her. Who, _what_ are they?

She hears a single word: Don.

_Don…Don…Don…_

It continues to repeat, over and over.

She feels a cool hand on her head.

_Judy?_

The new word interrupts her mind's steady, flowing rhythm of the first.

_Don, please! I need you…_

She brings her hand up and thrusts it forward. By pure luck, she strikes skin.

She can't count how many more time she does it. All she knows is that her hand is throbbing miserably by the end.

###

The next morning the fever breaks. Her eyes flicker open, and she sees the others, all in a loop around her bed; Dr. Smith, checking her pulse and smiling vaguely, Mother and Dad, relieved looks on their faces, Will, grinning happily, and the Robot, chugging along quietly.

Then her eyes fall on Judy and Don.

And she sees that it wasn't her older sister she was hitting last night.


End file.
